


An "Us" Thing

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Broadway, M/M, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2016 prompt Broadway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An "Us" Thing

The tiny little walkup was filthy—and needed to be aired out. “Eugh! Why does ANYONE ever smoke?” Kurt called out to Blaine, as he emptied yet another bucket of gray water down the tub. At this rate, it would be _March_ before they could officially move in. 

Blaine poked his head out of the bedroom. A Michigan blue toque was jammed down low over his ears, and his hands were covered in wooly fingerless gloves. “You know why. Old Hollywood made smoking sexy. Lighting up means you’ve just had great sex. Just think of this place as a little love nest.” He tried for his trademark sultry look, but honestly, Kurt didn’t think even Blaine could pull that off while standing in an old paint-splattered thermal coverall. 

A single curl had escaped from the front of the hat, and it looked as though it had been dipped in the pale periwinkle paint Blaine was applying to the walls. “Nothing says sexy like a painter in a parka,” Kurt teased, tugging at the curl and stealing a kiss as he waited for the bucket to fill with hot water. 

“Well, _you_ seem to be able to pull off sexy housecleaner in your coveralls. Just wish you had bedazzled them like your old ones,” Blaine replied, nuzzling his cold nose into Kurt’s neck. 

“My dad showed them to you, didn’t he?” 

“Of course your dad showed them to me. He knows what a sucker I am for little boy Kurt.” 

“Well, bedazzled coveralls or no, I don’t think we’re ever getting this done,” he moaned, pulling away to turn the water off and grab the new bucket. 

“Are the living room walls that bad?” 

“Mostly over in that odd nook by the side window. I got the rest done, but ugh. I swear the old tenant must have used that corner to sit there and smoke, sticking his head out the window. The woodwork is a mess too.” 

“Huh. That’s one way to say to the landlord that you’re smoking OUTSIDE, I guess. But we have made progress. Come see. I think we can get by with just these two coats on the walls here. What do you think?” 

The blue—most restful, according to the thousand websites he’d searched through (and importantly, most different from any bedroom from their past)—was soft and inviting in the midwinter light. In the middle of the narrow room, Blaine had placed a pair of sawhorses on the drop cloths, raw boards lying across them alternately painted a soft yellow, a midnight blue, a pale spearmint green, and a warm sand. A cold January breeze rattled the raised storm windows. 

Kurt stood by the sawhorses and turned in place, taking in all the walls. Blaine had done a nice job. “They _do_ look like we’ve got the coverage right,” he noted. 

“I think we’ll be ready by tonight.” 

“What? To move in? We haven’t even started on the kitchen.” 

“No. The walls will be dry enough by 3 or so to close the windows. And then after a few hours it can get warm enough in here.” 

“For what? Blaine!” 

“For our romantic campout. I was thinking—we can’t decide on whether we want to go early morning beach or dew-scented garden in here. So I thought we’d sleep on it. Literally SLEEP on it, see how the different trims look under lamplight at night and in the morning when the sun comes in. But we’ll do it from a bed, so it will be more like real life. Well, sort of a bed. Sam’s air mattress.” 

“That’s—actually not the worst idea ever. We could play around with the best spot for the bed, too. I like the way you think, Mr. Hummel-Anderson. And, you know, it _would_ be nice to have some alone time.” 

“And maybe. Maybe we could make it a date night? Without Artie and the girls?” 

They’d been staying at the off-campus apartment Artie shared with his film school pals Lils and Orli, who had seemed low key and chill when they met them via Skype when Artie first offered his place. And they mostly were. But after Tina moved to the city to start her semester-long internship in costume design, the space had grown crowded. It was like the loft all over again, but this time _they_ were Sam crashed on the couch. 

“Yes! What did you have in mind?” 

“One word. Broadway!” 

Before Kurt could object or comment, or ask what he even meant, Blaine was shooing him from the room. “But first, we need to get moving. You need to get scrubbing before your water gets cold. And I need to finish up in here, clean it up enough for our adventure before Tina gets here for lunch.” 

Kurt wasn’t stupid. He knew Blaine must have been planning this date—for days at least. When the hell had he found the time? It had been hard enough to carve out this workday in their schedules. Classes had started up at NYU, and Blaine, ever ambitious, was already talking about adding a minor in Performance Studies to his Drama major. Kurt couldn’t help it; such talk made him anxious. He wanted to rein it all in a little: the hope, the planning, mostly Blaine’s excitement over what seemed an insane courseload. He had to work to tamp down his worry, to tell himself to trust that it would be different this time; that Blaine was a natural, and that Tisch would be a better fit than NYADA. 

He swiped at the baseboard and the cloth came away grimy again. The task seemed never-ending, but it would be worth it, he knew. He so wanted to get this odd little corner clean so they could set up a workspace. Blaine said Tisch just expected more theory than NYADA, and that meant writing papers. Sure, Blaine could write in the library at NYU, but it was important to Kurt to find a spot in every home they shared that could become his husband’s refuge, a nook where he could work, even create music. He pictured a modernist vibe, a desk that looked out at the side street below. Maybe add some shelving, and most important, a cozy chair where Kurt could curl up with a script, maybe, and keep Blaine company—on the rare times they were both home. 

The air was cold here, too, under the open window. He crouched down and worked along the line of the baseboards, dreaming of such peaceful nights at home, thinking maybe they could work to make those nights less rare. Then he sat back hard, dismayed. Oh, who was he kidding? Starting next week he’d have sessions with his vocal coach, and Advanced Combat class, and he’d have to find another job or try to freelance for Isabelle. Plus the audition lists were already up for the 3rd year plays. Life was about to get VERY complicated again. 

Still, they could do this, right? They knew how now. Didn’t they? 

He stood and started on the trim around the little window, determined to finish with enough time to lotion his hands before Tina arrived. From down the hall, he heard Blaine singing as he rinsed the brushes and rollers in the apartment’s bathtub. His voice echoed off the tiled walls. “Put on some makeup, turn up the tape deck, and put the wig back on my head…” 

The rag splashed into the bucket at Kurt’s feet. No! It couldn’t be, not in his wildest dreams. He dashed to the bathroom door. Blaine’s song stopped and he looked up sheepishly. 

Kurt was just vibrating with excitement. “Have I told you lately that you are my favorite person ever?” 

“Um. Yeah. This morning, when I gave you the last of the everything bagels from Bergens?” 

“You got tickets to _Hedwig_? With John Cameron Mitchell? Elliott will be so jealous.” 

“Who said I got tickets to _Hedwig_?” 

“Please. Your face is a one-way ticket to the Belasco right now.” 

Blaine burst out laughing. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means…Remember watching the movie at my house?” 

“Finn was so confused.” 

“And you were so in love—with Hedwig, or Tommy…” 

“Or you,” Blaine crooned. “You’re the Berlin Wall of my dreams.” 

“Well, yes, but JCM is close.” 

Blaine conceded with a small shrug. They really were going to Hedwig tonight. “Oh my God. We have to get Elliott to give us some wardrobe tips.” 

“I thought I’d just wear that nice gray cowl neck sweater my Dad got me for Christmas. And those black pants you like so much.” 

“Ooh, that would be so soft and pretty to snuggle with.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

“But, Blaine! It’s Punk Broadway. You know Elliott would say you have to make a _statement_.” 

Blaine wiped his hands on the ratty towel hanging on the rack, took Kurt’s hands into his, and pulled him close. “I AM making a statement. I’m saying that I’m here in New York with my ridiculously beautiful husband, and we’re going to let the equally beautiful John Cameron Mitchell teach us a little something about transformation.” 

There was something there, in his voice, in his big warm eyes so full of hope, and Kurt suddenly understood. Yes, Blaine HAD been planning this date, but it wasn’t just to get away from Artie’s estrogen wonderland of an apartment, and it wasn’t about taking New York by storm with Elliott. It wasn’t even about whistling past the graveyard of Blaine’s fears that he’d fail out of another school. This was a marriage thing, just like this tiny, awful, perfect apartment. 

“This is about _us, _then?”__

“This is about us,” Blaine answered, and his mouth on Kurt’s was the warmest thing in the cold apartment.


End file.
